


foundations, crumbled

by skochius



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Best Friends, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, vaguely shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skochius/pseuds/skochius
Summary: Steve’s large hands wrap around the nap of his neck, comfortably cradling his skull. His thumbs brush over Tony’s cheeks, then Steve steps forward and Tony’s enveloped in a hug, warm and safe, his head tucked under Steve’s chin. “It’s okay not to be everything, Tony.”“I don’t think I know how,” Tony whispers into Steve’s collarbone. It feels like telling a damning secret.In which Tony has an anxiety attack and Steve gives him all the love.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [usedupshiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedupshiver/gifts).



> shameless whump for my heart and love, usedupshiver.

* * *

 

It starts as a prickle on the back of his neck.

Tony swats it away with sweaty palms. Nothing seems to be going right—from the coffee he spilled all down his front to the complete inability to properly solder the minute wires in a prototype bow.

He feels itchy, nervous, as though the empty workshop were full of eyes watching every mistake. An echo of Howard, grainy like radio static, tells him the full measure of his unending disappointment.

After the third time he burns his fingers, Tony throws the soldering iron down with a swear. He’s making childish, stupid mistakes—mistakes that could get someone killed, mistakes that could blow up in his face, mistakes that could end up _tearing the team apart._

Tears spring to Tony’s eyes and he’s not even sure _why_ , but he wants to sob and sob until Jarvis comes and tucks a warm blanket around him, like back when he was a kid. Except Jarvis has been dead for twenty-something years, so that’s not going to happen.

Tony can’t even figure out  _why_  he’s crying and the frustration from that makes him cry harder.

 _Useless_ , Howard says. _Golden goose_ , Obadiah agrees.

Natasha scoffs. _Egomaniac. Selfish._

Tony’s stomach quivers with the urge to vomit or shit, or maybe both. “I donate to charity,” he says. “I… I try to improve people’s lives. I—”

_Merchant of Death._

“I built the suit to—”

 _Take that away,_  Steve whispers, _and what are you?_

“A piece of shit,” Tony says. The sound bounces strangely in his workshop. Overhead, the lights dim down low and the heater creeps to life; it’s the closest JARVIS can come.

Tony just closes his eyes and shivers despite the suffusing warmth.

Clint’s expecting the new bow today, and Natasha needs her Bites looked over after they gave her a shock—Bruce wants to implement a smaller-scale version of Doctor Cho’s regeneration machine but that requires forms and waivers and Tony feels personally responsible because _of course_ they should’ve already had one what had he even been _thinking_ —

“Sir,” JARVIS says in the far away, tinny and small. “Sir, Captain Rogers is asking for you. He says he needs to talk with you about a manner of some importance.”

The words sink in slowly.

“I will relay to him that you are unavailable—”

“No.” He can guess what Steve wants to talk about; he can feel it bubbling under his skin. A man in a can doesn’t belong with heroes. Perhaps Steve would be gentle at first, benching him for his own good but still relying on the tech and upgrades and money…

Until they see the fucking mess he made of Clint’s bow, of course.

Then it’ll be off for good, shoved back into a dusty corner like a childhood toy, misplaced and promptly forgotten.

Well, Tony always knew he would die alone.

“Give me a second,” he mutters, “let me just…” Tony tries to stand, but stumbles hard and retreats his ass back to the stability of his chair before he manages to fall and bang his head open. Tony crumples. “Fuck it. Just send him in.”

Might as well let the cat out of the bag.

* * *

When Steve enters, his steps are quiet and calm, an even pat-slam-pat of bare skin on smooth floor. Tony frowns, because he knows what angry steps sound like—thunder and lightning and all the nightmares of his eight-year-old self.

“Hey,” Steve calls as he rolls in—literally, he always balances one shoulder on the door frame when knocking, then turns on the ball of his foot to enter. The sliding door always catches him by surprise. “Jesus,” he chuckles, righting himself. “Every damn time.”

Tony just stares. He’s managed to pull himself up, but his weight is almost entirely supported by the table. Clint’s bow—his failure—sits in the middle; gleaming and completely broken. “Hey, Steve.”

Steve whistles. “I came to see if you were up for a patrol tonight. Thor’s _claiming_  he can’t go because of a broken toe but really, I think he just wants to stay close home because Jane’s in town.” He pats on over and gives Tony a friendly slap on the shoulder that nearly sends him toppling. “This what you’ve been working on? It’s bee-autiful.”

“It’s broken,” Tony snaps. It’s like something has broken apart in his chest; the world goes fuzzy around the edges and his head pounds and his heart beats at a mile a minute and he might be _dying_ again, who-the-hell-knows.

“What? But it looks great—”

The bang Tony’s fist makes when he slams it down echos in the workshop. “The bow suffer critical failure when exposed to temperatures over 800 Celsius and for a bow that has to be so automated that it practically shoots the arrow for him, do you know what that means?” Tony rounds to face a shocked Steve. “It blows the hell up, Steve!”

“Woah, woah,” Steve says, raising his hands in front of him, palms open, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. “You went a little metric on me. 800 Celsius—,” His face scrunches up. “Tony, that’s like… lava hot. When’re we going to fight in the inside of a volcano?”

“I don’t know.” A strange, bitter laugh bubbles out. “But last week we took the scenic route to Atlantis, so. I…” Tony sighs. He can’t stand to look at Steve, not with those earnest blue eyes. “I resign.”

“Resign?! Tony, come on—you gotta talk to me, what’s going on?”

“I’m not fit for duty,” Tony says and god, it sounds like the truth—cool, silky truth soothing the bewildering anxiety building in him. “I can’t even build a bow.”

“ _Tony_.” Then Steve does something that almost shocks Tony out of his mind—Steve Rogers places both hands on his face and forces Tony to look him dead on. “Tony. Look at me. It’s okay, I’m here.”

Tony’s mouth falls open. “I… know you’re here? I’ve been talking to you? Where’ve you been?”

Steve’s eyes are almost uncomfortable in their honesty; the blue reflects back Tony’s own shocked expression. “Clint has over 50 bows. He picked a plastic pink one up at a damn faire two weeks ago, I think he can deal with one that unsuitable for use in an actual volcano. You are our team’s greatest asset—”

“—because of my money—”

“—because you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met. A capable leader. Someone who cares about his friends and team to the point of working himself to an anxiety attack.” Steve’s large hands wrap around the nap of his neck, comfortably cradling his skull. His thumbs brush over Tony’s cheeks, then Steve steps forward and Tony’s enveloped in a hug, warm and safe, his head tucked under Steve’s chin. “It’s okay not to be everything, Tony.”

“I don’t think I know how,” Tony whispers into Steve’s collarbone. It feels like telling a damning secret.

“You know what? Forget patrol tonight. You need a warm blanket and a good movie with a better friend.”

Tony shrugs. “I’ve got work—”

“Fortunately,” Steve says, overriding his protests, “I happen to know a good movie or two.”

There’s a moment were Tony wants to go—watch a movie, relax, maybe catch a nap on the couch and wake up when someone pokes him to budge him over. “I can’t,” he sighs. “I have to scrap this bow, make something better.

Steve blinks at him, jaw heroically clenched, eyes sincere and unwavering. “I can’t carry the weight of your insecurities, Mister Stark—”

Then those strong arms are lifting him up and Tony’s laughing too hard to speak—laughing and crying and he just isn’t sure what to think, so he wraps his legs around Steve’s waist and lets himself be hoisted.

“—but I can carry _you._ ”

Tony buries his face in Steve’s neck, overwhelmed to the point of hiccuping. “You would, oh my god. You would make a Lord of the Rings joke, Steven Rogers.”

“Mm,” Steve agrees. His hand rubs Tony’s lower back like one might soothe a child. “I might happen to be in the mood for a marathon of the Peter Jackson movies. _If_  someone would care to be there to explain all those newfangled special effects.”

“You’re a menace, honestly. And people think _I'm_ the sassy one.” Tony digs his heels into Steve. “Onwards, Shadowfax!”

 

* * *

 


End file.
